


Yet

by showmeurteef



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Cyberpunk AU, Multi, eventual poly relationship, hyungki don't like each other at first, implied sexual relationship, ki is a bit grouchy at first cuz the world is Hard, ki n hyunja tattoo artist bffs, will probs add more members as the story goes on, will probs up the rating for later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23673616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/showmeurteef/pseuds/showmeurteef
Summary: It’s as if Changkyun’s been sent from The Big Corporation in the Sky specifically to poke at Kihyun’s ever-thinning bubble of security, of respect, of common decency.(aka it all starts w changkyun crushing on his tight, stressed, wary tattoo artist who Does Not Need To Acknowledge His Feelings, Thank You Very Much)extended/explained warnings at the start of each chapter
Relationships: Chae Hyungwon/Im Changkyun | I.M, Chae Hyungwon/Im Changkyun | I.M/Yoo Kihyun, Chae Hyungwon/Yoo Kihyun, Im Changkyun | I.M/Yoo Kihyun
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	Yet

**Author's Note:**

> warnings:  
> \- changkyun is tattooed during this scene, but nothing is particularly detailed aside from the artwork itself ((the pulsar map type thingie from here https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pioneer_plaque is what he gets if ur curious))  
> \- there's a surgery/anesthesia mention in this chap  
> \- mildly violent thoughts  
> \- a blood mention  
> \- an ableism mention  
> \- implied pet play
> 
> let me know if u need anything else explained/tagged !

“It’s that kid again.” The clicking of the beaded curtain, the whisper of boots against dusty concrete, and Hyunja’s smile— Kihyun can hear it. _That_ smile. The one that pulls chapped lips over rabbit teeth and turns sparkly eyes cartoonish. Kihyun is hesitant to call it cute because he knows _exactly_ what it means.

“He’s not a _kid_ ,” he grumbles, swiveling back and forth between his ink set and the plush table (plush being a _very_ generous description after all these years of leather-studded cowards and their sharp nails), needlessly rearranging things because he doesn’t want to see Hyunja’s smile. Tense fingers don’t make for good artwork, and Kihyun is wound tighter than a robocop’s ass on a good day.

“Should I cover for you? I could tell him you’ve got another client, or something,” she murmurs (Kihyun _hates_ when she does that), forcing Kihyun to reply to something she _already_ knows the answer to (Kihyun _hates_ when she does that.)

Kihyun has no clue what he did to deserve to become one of the (exceedingly rare) objects of Hyunja’s attention. She can’t keep a lookout to save her (or Kihyun’s) life, has been known to make friends on the wrong side of town just because she “got lost on her way to work, and that one unlit street seemed familiar _enough,_ and, well...” and she goes silent around more than four neon lights, but, _somehow_ , her tattoos are some of the most intricately detailed, finely shaded in the city, and she knows _every little thing_ about Kihyun. 

Why _him?_ Sure, Kihyun is well aware that the microchips meant to “improve” mental function and focus like Hyunja’s are pure ableist bullshit, and would send Hyunja straight back to the factories, anyhow, but _fuck_ if he doesn’t hate how she _looks_ at him. Through him.

So, Kihyun scratches at the handle of his tattoo gun, stares intently at its scarred surface, and shakes off the weight of Hyunja’s pleased, open, _understanding_ gaze.

“No. It’s fine. I don’t know why you think it wouldn’t be fine.” Kihyun’s lips purse as soon as he says it. Fuck him for inviting further conversation on the matter— the matter of the not-kid, of Changkyun. It’s _fine_.

“Didn’t you say that he—”

 _“Fucking—_ Be _quiet_ ,” Kihyun hisses. Their shop is the size of a fucking roomba— Changkyun _must_ be listening, and if he isn’t, Kihyun cursing Hyunja out for recounting his anaesthetic-induced honesty, and for _daring_ to remember what Kihyun said at all, would definitely be enough to catch Changkyun’s ear.

Kihyun looks up from the gun, and finds Hyunja no longer smiling at him, but blinking. Seeming genuinely curious, genuinely surprised at Kihyun’s irritation. _Seeming._

“People say _all kinds_ of shit under anaesthesia. I was having a rebooted tracker removed, give me a break.” Kihyun clips his words. Clamps his teeth around each breath. Hyunja tilts her head. “So, _like I said_ , it’s fine. Send him in.”

Hyunja looks away, shrugs, shuffles back through the beaded curtain. Kihyun might feel bad about snapping at her, but if she knows him so goddamn _well_ , then she knows why he reacted like this, why she should know better than to bring up—

“Hey.”

The beaded curtain swishes and clicks bravely, rhythmically. Boots squeak against the dirty floor— an impossible feat for anything other than _brand new_ shoes (another impossibility.) And the bizarre mixture of gravel and bubblegum that could only ever be Changkyun’s voice follows.

“Hey yourself.” Kihyun doesn’t bother to keep the (ever-present) tension out of his reply, but he isn’t sure what to do about the way that Changkyun’s little lips quirk upwards at his intentionally misplaced snippiness. 

Stiffly, quickly he gestures for Changkyun to sit. And Changkyun smirks a little at that, too.

He squeaks and jingles his way from the doorway to the table, plopping down with a familiar playfulness that makes the hairs on the back of Kihyun’s neck stand up. Kihyun tries to coat his gaze with a veneer of professional distance for the sake of his stiff fingers, for the sake of whatever Changkyun wants tattooed this time, but his eyes get stuck on the studded leather peeking out from under Changkyun’s coat. A _collar_. Around his throat.

Changkyun, who’s littered with tattoos that Kihyun is _sure_ he’d claim were each weighted with some emotional backstory. Changkyun, who bursts the bubble of unattached, unfamiliar conversation that Kihyun tries to blow between them each and every time he plops onto his table. Changkyun, who lights up and wriggles and laughs and _pushes_ , no matter how hard Kihyun tries to pin him down. That Changkyun, collared.

“You’re dressed up,” Kihyun says, immediately swallowing a grimace because he _isn’t_. He isn’t “dressed up.” He’s in his usual rain and grime soaked layers of black, meant for blending into shadowy crowds and hiding contraband in its folds— just like _anyone_ wearing _anything_ on this side of town. The unscuffed, squeaky boots are all that’s worth noticing, but Kihyun didn’t comment on those. Isn’t looking at those.

And Changkyun must be trading notes with Hyunja when Kihyun isn’t looking because he _looks_ at Kihyun and he _smiles_.

“What, this?” He hooks a finger around the collar, tugging it out from under the bulky, draping hood. It would’ve been so _easy_ for him to just play along, to let Kihyun continue with what he had actually _said_ (regardless of its inaccuracy), but, of course, he _didn’t_. 

Kihyun hardens his expression (to which Changkyun’s legs start to kick and sway) and locks the collar in his sight.

“Yeah. That.” He slides his eyes up to meet Changkyun’s to make _absolutely certain_ that it’s clear he won’t be outdone by a leg-kicking, smiling, jingling _client_ , before swiveling around to prep his first needle.

“Hyungwon swiped it for me. Do you like it?”

Kihyun can’t help but snort. Does he _like_ it? Blunt. Even for Changkyun. Professionalism be (momentarily) damned, Kihyun wants Changkyun to know that he’s _well_ aware of the implications behind such a ridiculous question. And that there’s no need for Kihyun to answer it.

“Hyungwon?”

“ _Oh!_ Yeah, they’re my—”

“We’re out of razor blades, so...” Kihyun swivels back to face him, gun in hand. Waits for him to catch up. Watches him blink at the interruption and release the collar to wave dismissively.

“It’s cool. Tattooing unshaved skin is the _least_ of my worries.” Changkyun smiles and rolls his eyes, and Kihyun’s skin prickles at the obvious invitation for him to _ask_ about Changkyun’s worries, to _get closer_. 

He grits his teeth as Changkyun sheds his coat (tossing it on the ground like some kind of animal), rolls up a sleeve, and splays out on the table. Changkyun blinks up at the ceiling, stretching his throat just to expose more of that damn collar, and Kihyun can’t imagine what’s in the stained, fractured concrete up there to make his eyes sparkle like that. He goes quiet— _so_ quiet for _so_ long that Kihyun thinks he can hear Hyunja fiddling with her locket in the next room. Kihyun rolls his stool closer and sighs.

“So, what is it you want?”

Changkyun jumps as if woken from a deep sleep. He sticks a hand in one of the infinite folds of his shirt, fishes around, and retrieves a slip of paper (that’s not so much a slip of paper as it is a napkin from a long-gone restaurant chain, stained with oil from a long-gone meal.) He passes it to Kihyun, who unfolds it to find... a bunch of lines, varying in length, shooting out from a single point. He sighs. Looks up. 

Changkyun just blinks at him, and now Kihyun’s forced to ask for clarification, to let Changkyun show off his artistic and symbolic prowess, or what the fuck ever. It’s almost enough to make him miss the days when Changkyun wanted nothing more than tacky crowns and hot pink hearts.

“What is it?” The question tastes like rotten lemons.

“ _Oh!_ ” Changkyun says, _again_ , as if Kihyun’s (begrudging, trifle) requests for clarification are a never-ending surprise birthday party. “It’s from a couple of space probes — _centuries_ ago— from the plaques on them. They— we sent this out as a kind of map for aliens to find us based on, like, the distance between our sun and some pulsars, which is a kind of star. Some of it’s kinda inaccurate, and the other stuff they included on the plaques could be... better, but this map was _also_ on a whole separate spacecraft that carried, like, a whole bunch of Earthling music and— ”

Changkyun’s hands move a lot when he talks, and for such a quiet guy, he sure talks a lot. Quickly, breathlessly. Like his brain has already launched towards the pulsars, or whatever, and his mouth is struggling to catch up. Plus, no matter how many words he gets out, Kihyun still doesn’t get it. So, it’s a bunch of lines, an inaccurate map at best, and Changkyun wants it on his body? Forever? Kihyun’s fingers start to seize up.

“You want it on your forearm?”

Changkyun visibly quiets, lips closing around a tiny smile and body slumping back against the table. He nods, stretches his exposed arm towards Kihyun, and returns to sparkling up at the ceiling. 

The sudden change edges the room towards blissful silence, but Hyunja is _definitely_ twirling her locket in the next room and the rhythmic jangle isn’t even drowned out by the whir of Kihyun’s tattoo gun. Kihyun stretches his fingers back and forth, slots his molars against each other, and wills everything in the universe that isn’t his buzzing gun to simply cease existing.

For a second or two, it works. Kihyun makes it through the first few lines, each spurting out from one central point and shuddering into static, without difficulty. His fingers, jaw, thoughts unwind. It’s just a few lines; he’s done much more complex pieces. A few lines on a smooth arm ( _too_ smooth for someone living in the crusted underbelly of capitalism), jutting out towards a delicate wrist ( _too_ delicate for someone whose survival no doubt depends on brute force around here.) Kihyun hates that looking at Changkyun’s pretty forearm against the backdrop of his tiny, grimy tattoo shop almost hurts.

Hyunja’s locket clinks and _clinks_. Changkyun clears his throat. Kihyun leans back to loosen his hands up. He glances at his client’s face to check up on him and, by some once in a lifetime miracle, catches him _just_ before he starts to speak. 

“So, Hyungwon?” Kihyun savors the way Changkyun’s mouth opens and closes like a fish’s. Startled by the interruption, but eager to pick up their earlier conversation. The taste of Changkyun’s surprise is almost enough to make bringing this (trivial, avoidable) topic up again worth it.

“Hyungwon’s my S.O! We’ve been together for years now— _way_ longer than I’ve been coming in to see you...” 

Changkyun’s eyes wander all around the room as he trails off, and widen when they land on Kihyun. Every inch of Kihyun’s skin tightens over whatever _that_ is supposed to mean. He bites his tongue, gets back to work, and _t_ _ries_ to sink into it but—

“I can’t _believe_ I haven’t told you about them ‘til now,” Changkyun says, as if Kihyun’s been enthusiastic to learn about his personal life all this time, as if Kihyun’s been diligently stroking the every little detail of Changkyun’s fascinating life out of him until now.

Kihyun’s vocal chords squeeze out a meaningless hum. He steadies his hand against Changkyun’s smooth skin and begins the longest line.

“Funny that I see you so often, but we don’t really know much about each other. I mean, I know where you work at least, but you don’t even know that about me.”

“Where do you work then? The factories, I assume?” Something brittle inside Kihyun snaps as he says it, as he lets Changkyun lead him into a conversation he’d really rather not have, but it must be done. 

He’ll feed him a few easy questions. He’ll bandage the incorrect, outdated map now permanently etched into Changkyun’s skin. And Changkyun will leave, sated and only slightly bleeding.

“I don’t.”

Kihyun’s hand freezes, his head snaps up. Changkyun’s eyebrow raises in confusion. _Confusion_. 

Sure, an underground tattoo shop in one of the lowest parts of the city might _seem_ like a safe enough place to admit that you’re not in the factories, not where _everyone_ is _supposed_ to be, but, for all Changkyun knows, the place could be wired, or Hyunja and Kihyun could be cops, or _worse_. It’s a huge risk— a fucking skyscraper-sized risk to just _declare_ unemployment, and Kihyun knew that Changkyun was naive, but _fuck._

“Oh.” That’s all he says. _Oh._ While his mind zips through the jingly earrings, the new boots, the stolen collar— all that risk in just the past half hour. Plus, then his tiny mouth splits open to reveal his personal life? _Himself?_ To his tattoo artist? The chill of complete and utter disbelief that someone could really be like _this,_ in _this_ world, sends Kihyun’s spinal fluid into fucking sublimation. 

“Now that you asked me a question, I want to ask you one.”

The request swirls with the torrential downpour of Changkyun’s absurdity to form a Category 5 hurricane within Kihyun’s skull. 

“What do you want to know?”

Kihyun can _feel_ Changkyun’s eyes on him as he returns to the tattoo. With every finishing touch, every final buzz of the gun, his gaze just gets heavier. _Itchier_. It hardly even matters what Changkyun is about to ask at this point; Kihyun just wants to get this over with. Nail a few scraps of plywood over the damage in his head, crank up the portable generator.

“What do you _really_ think about the collar?”

Kihyun envisions himself toppling off of his stool, and then immediately knocking Changkyun upside the head with it. It’s as if Changkyun’s been sent from The Big Corporation in the Sky _specifically_ to poke at Kihyun’s ever-thinning bubble of security, of respect, of _common decency_. What the fuck does he want Kihyun to say? That he thinks it’s reckless to wear something so flashy on this side of town? That he thinks it’s hypocritical of someone who frequents the underground and has (tacky, unimaginative) revolutionary symbols tattooed all over him to be collared? That, despite everything, he thinks the collar is— 

“I think that you think it’s a little hot,” Changkyun answers his own question (so what was the point of even _asking?_ ) and grins up at the ceiling. “C’mon. You do, right?”

And Kihyun guesses that Hyunja must’ve _looked_ at Changkun, too, because he _is_ a bit like a kid, in that he’s an immature, irrational, shameless little asshole— 

“Hyungwon thinks it is and so do I— _obviously_. But I wondered if you would, too. You’re pretty cold— I’ll give you that,” Changkyun snorts, and Kihyun can feel each and every last one of his blood vessels bursting. He’ll _give_ him that. How generous.

“What— what are you _talking_ about, Changkyun? I’m your tattoo artist, you’re my client, we barely know each other, and this is the worst side of town imaginable. Don’t you think that bringing this kind of shit up is a little much? That coming onto me is a little risky? For _strangers?_ ”

“Strangers?” Changkyun’s eyes go all wide like Hyunja’s, but sadder and blinkier and paired with those tiny pursed lips that Kihyun can’t _stand_. “I— but I don’t wanna be strangers.”

“What _do_ you want?” The force of Kihyun’s sigh pushes his stool backwards. Closer to his ink set. Farther from Changkyun. 

He shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought of a thought of asking what Changkyun _wants_. He should be cutting this conversation off before it even begins. He should be bandaging Changkyun up and sending him on his way. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“What do _you_ want?”

The soft bits of Kihyun’s hands turn to iron. Hyunja’s mind-reading bullshit must be contagious— Changkyun must come here way too often. Kihyun needs to set up some kind of system, some kind of weekly tattoo limit with Hyunja. And how the _hell_ is Changkyun paying for all of these visits, anyhow?

“I don’t _want_ anything,” he grits out. Exchanges his tattoo shit for bandaging shit. Breathes.

His palm molds to Changkyun’s firearm, gently rotating it, careful not to touch the fresh piece. Red blood and black ink beads on the staticky lines, pools in the center. He wipes it away. Changkyun inhales sharply. An apology sticks to the back of Kihyun’s throat.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

Kihyun dedicates every last fiber of his being to wrapping Changkyun’s arm. Stretching coarse fabric over too-soft skin. Snipping and tucking the edges. Not making a sound, not making Changkyun make a sound.

“ _Everybody_ wants something.”

But Kihyun can’t just stare at Changkyun’s wrapped arm forever. His job is done. It’s time to say goodbye with no more than a curt, distanced nod, then shoo Changkyun out to Hyunja for payment.

“I don’t— I don’t know what you want.” Kihyun’s voice is a crackly, withered thing, so much louder than Hyunja’s twirling locket, and he _hates_ it.

“Honestly? I want...” Changkyun retrieves his bandaged arm (the realization that he hadn’t even asked to look at the thing before Kihyun wrapped it up is dizzying) and swings himself back into a sitting position. He cocks his head. “I kinda wanted to fuck, at some point. But, I mostly think you’re cool? And I want to talk to you, like, outside of the artist/client thing. I want to get to know you?”

Changkyun must lilt his sentence into a question to soften the blow. Does he think that Kihyun looks fragile? That he needs to sugar-coat everything for him?

“What _is_ this?”

“Whatever you want it to be.”

There he goes again— this reckless, ridiculous _kid_. Letting a total stranger call the shots. Offering him just about anything. Trusting him for no goddamned reason. What is that collar even _for_ if he’s still so wild?

“Don’t feel pressured to answer right now, but...” Changkyun slips off of the table and gestures vaguely, awkwardly. “It’s— I’m— whatever you want could be, maybe, an option.”

 _He_ gives _Kihyun_ a nod and shoos _himself_ out to Hyunja, leaving Kihyun with nothing but bandage scraps and vague ideas of “whatever this is” and “whatever he wants” floating around his head like smoke. He barely hears Changkyun’s exchange with Hyunja, or the snippet of city racket as the shop door opens and closes over the blood rushing in his veins.

**Author's Note:**

> idk how soon i will update but ! ty for reading <33 feedback of any kind is the cyber to my punk (n would also just be super helpful cuz this is my first time posting a multichap without finishing all the chapters beforehand)  
> u can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/showmeurteef) or [cc](https://curiouscat.me/showmeurteef)


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